Mysterious Alchemy
by LJC
Summary: His boundless curiosity had never wavered, not once in the last eight years. But she hadn't seen anything like hope shining in his green eyes for a very, very long time.


It had been pure chance that they'd chosen the same time, the same stretch of beach. What Elizabeth might have called coincidence or even synchronicity, her friend Dr Miller Simon would have called mysterious alchemy or a miracle of random probability, as ridiculous and impossible as the transmutation of lead into gold.

Dr Elizabeth Merrill and Dr Marina Macleod were both attending the same marine research conference in La Jolla, and though they had met in passing at more than one conference over the years, this was the first time they had ever run into one another at dawn on the beach closest to the convention centre.

Elizabeth had been swimming in the Pacific almost before she could walk, and she always felt more herself in a wetsuit than a lab coat—or the uniform of pencil skirt, silk blouse, and two inch heels she'd worn every day of the conference that made her _long_ for her faded jeans and comfortable canvas deck shoes.

But she and Mark were at the conference because she was presenting a paper. It was a rare thing—because after all, how could one say flat out that her findings were achieved with the help of a man who could breathe underwater, at depths that would crush a normal man like a tin can, and see clear as day in the near-total darkness of the deepest depths of the world's oceans? But this had been a rare opportunity to talk openly about the parts of her marine research unrelated to her study of Mark, and the long search for clues to the mystery that surrounded his origins. And it reminded the scientific community that she existed and was doing important work; always a good thing, when it came time to make the rounds looking for grant money.

Most of the time, Mark seemed content to let the questions about his origins percolate in the back of his mind while they did a variety of research using both their skill sets to their fullest. But now and then he would become quieter, less talkative, and Elizabeth would have called him melancholy. She knew that his being alone—not just an orphan but potentially the last of his species—bothered him more than he let on, but she tried to allow him to bring the subject up when he did feel like talking about it. It had happened more often in the early days at the Navy Undersea Centre, and less and less frequent over time. She never wanted him to give up hope completely, but he seemed to have adapted to his life on land far more comfortably than she'd ever believed possible.

It was their usual habit to swim together in the mornings, where few would be around to observe his abilities—not to mention the differences in his outward appearance to other men. But Mark had gone back to their beach house after the second day, completely overwhelmed by the volume and presence of so many people crammed into the meeting rooms. His sense of taste and smell were more sensitive than a normal man's, and that alone made rubber chicken dinners unpalatable to him. Even Elizabeth, with her completely human senses, got headaches sometimes from the mingled smells of strong perfume and after-shave mixed with sweat and lukewarm dishes from hotel catering.

Normally she'd have driven him back herself after presenting her work. But he'd become a very good, very careful driver, and she had cab fare. So they'd said good-bye in the lobby where she had booked a room for the conference, and she headed upstairs to change, while he drove back to the home they'd shared ever since she'd left Hastings Point.

The funding for the Foundation drying up had been inevitable—no-one in the private sector could properly maintain a nuclear sub that cost $15,000 every time they took it out which was, if not daily, often enough that the $12 million annual budget had ballooned to nearly $20 million before they'd had to close up shop in '81. The Navy had taken back Schubert's sub, CW and Elizabeth had shuttered the lab, and Mark had moved in with her.

It was supposed to have been temporary, but over the course of the last four years, her home had become his home. She couldn't imagine rattling around in the large, airy beach house alone anymore. Nor would it have felt like home without the myriad shells, fossils, and rare and beautiful things Mark brought back from his excursions. He had his own books on her shelves, a small chest of drawers in his room for his growing 'off-duty' wardrobe. He would still disappear for days at a time, but thanks to his transponder, she always knew where to find him. It wasn't at all the same as trailing him in the sub, but it was the best they could do and they made it work.

Her morning swim had been a routine even before she'd (literally) fished Mark out of the ocean. Every day that started with her in the water seemed better than one where she was stuck in the lab, sleeping on a camp cot while she worked nearly round the clock. She longed for the day when computers would be smaller and faster, equipment more affordable, and she'd be able to open her own lab again without the need for outside funding.

But today, she wasn't thinking about the past. Her eyes were fixed squarely on the future. And there were two panels today—the final day of the conference—she hadn't wanted to miss. Particularly the one led by Dr Macleod. With five oceanography degrees, she rivalled Elizabeth's own achievements, and was a talented programmer, to boot. At just thirty years old, she'd been installed as head of marine research at the Happer Institute in Scotland just last year. While some had scoffed, Elizabeth recognised exactly how difficult it was to be taken seriously as a women in a male-dominated research field, and very much admired her talent and drive.

So when she came up for air to find another woman in a near-matching 'short john' wetsuit only a few metres out from her current position, it had seemed fate as the figure had swum closer and Elizabeth recognised her. The younger woman was quite the swimmer, giving Elizabeth a fair run for her money. She also had impressive lung capacity, once staying below the surface long enough that Elizabeth began to worry she should call the Coast Guard.

Without her hair pinned up in a severe bun, eyes hidden behind Buddy Holly horn-rimmed glasses, Dr Macleod looked much younger than she did standing behind a podium, lecturing about widening currents in the Indian Ocean and the flow rate's potential impact on global climate change. Then again, Elizabeth had employed much the same professional camouflage in her day—being a conventionally attractive young woman in STEM fields was no picnic.

"You gave me quite a scare out there!" Elizabeth confided as they reached the shallows and stood in the waist-deep water.

"You kept up, though. I was impressed."

"Elizabeth Merrill." Instead of offering her hand, she snapped off a sloppy salute.

"Marina Macleod," she said as they waded towards shore. "I'm familiar with your work, Dr Merrill."

"And I yours. I'm looking forward to your presentation this afternoon."

They'd continued to chat amiably about inconsequential things when they'd walked back up the shore after they'd gone as far out as they dared, and then back again. Marina had been instrumental in the creation of the facility, and Elizabeth was jealous of all the shiny new toys the Institute had supplied her lab. Even Elizabeth's lab at Schiff didn't have the kind of cutting-edge tech Marina got to play with on a daily basis.

Elizabeth had grabbed her gym bag and followed Marina to the bench where she'd left her own things. They'd hosed off the salt and sand, and Elizabeth had been bending down to slip on her deck shoes when she'd got her first look at Marina's toes.

The delicate membrane between each of her toes was nearly identical to Mark's. Their conversation stuttered to a halt as Elizabeth stared, trying to wrap her head around what she was seeing. It wasn't the first time she'd seen someone with webbed toes. But she doubted the scientist hailed from another galaxy. Still, it gave her enough pause that Marina noticed the awkwardness.

"It runs in my family," Marina said with a shrug. "Skips a generation now and then. They call it partial syndactyly, but I don't actually have most of those genetic markers. Just this." She spread her toes, and the membrane appeared nearly translucent. "Damned convenient for swimming, but it does have its drawbacks."

"No sandals, I imagine," Elizabeth said with a faint smile. "I'm sorry for staring."

"Most people do." Dr Macleod had this way about her that Elizabeth appreciated. She was brisk, direct, almost to the point of blunt, really. But her eyes were always dancing, like she was the only one in on some cosmic joke. She didn't suffer fools gladly, and Elizabeth had seen her sail effortlessly through the treacherous waters of stolid scientists without foundering at more than one of the endless cocktail parties and aforementioned rubber chicken dinners.

"Were your hands...?"

She held out her hands, fingers spread, and in the pearly morning light, Elizabeth could see the thin white scars that ran up the sides of Marina's fingers, halfway to the first knuckle. It was nearly impossible to see unless you were looking for it.

"My parents had it done when I was a baby, so I didn't have much say in the matter. I think they'd have done my feet as well, but Gran put her foot down. Quite literally. According to my older brothers, they'd never heard such language from the sweet old thing. But when I was about four, she took me aside and showed me her scars. She hadn't had much of a choice, either. Especially back in those days."

"I'm so sorry, that must have been terribly difficult for you."

"I was teased a fair bit, when I was little. But certainly I took to water like the proverbial duck," she'd laughed, slipping on her own canvas trainers.

Elizabeth was sorely tempted to ask her how long she could hold her breath underwater, but honestly couldn't think how to phrase it without Marina thinking she was crazy as a loon. And besides, other than the webbed fingers and toes, there didn't appear to be any other superficial similarities to Mark. She had visible pores, and the morning sun caught the light dusting of blonde hair on her arms bared by the sleeveless wetsuit. Her eyes were a perfectly normal light blue. Her skin wasn't as tanned as Elizabeth's, but had freckled under the California sun, which Mark's never did. There was no reason to believe Mark and Marina might be connected—except the feeling in her gut that was impossible to ignore.

"Tell me more about this magical Scottish bay of yours," Elizabeth had asked, as they began walking back toward their hotel.

* * *

Mark stood next to the French doors leading out to their stretch of beach while Elizabeth paced back and forth in front of him. He'd been surprised when she'd come home early, only because he knew how dedicated she was to her (their) work. But as soon as she explained _why_, he'd gone completely still, giving her his entire focus and attention. Elizabeth's cheeks had warmed; she would probably never become immune to the effects of the intensity of those vivid green eyes.

"All this time, we've focused on the Pacific—based on how you washed up on the beach at Point Loma. But maybe that's the reason we've never found any evidence of—" Elizabeth stopped herself before she could say _Atlantis_, but it hung in the air between them anyway, "—your people. What if that was because we've been looking in the wrong place? What if the answer is waiting for us half-way across the world?"

Mark had been quiet as she'd told him about Dr Macleod and her new theory about his origins.

"I know the currents that your friend spoke of, warm water from the Gulf stream carrying all manner of flotsam to her bay. I know those waters—but I have no memory of ever being there." He sounded as frustrated as always by the stubborn grey, blank veil over his life before he met her. How he would react instinctively, how he could _know_ a thing with complete certainty, while not knowing where or how he'd acquired the knowledge. And even now, years later, those instances would crop up—surprising them both.

"She said it's been in her family since the 19th century. Syndactyly usually affects Caucasian men, but it's only the women in her family, as far as she knows. But think of it—generations of what might be hybrid humans, adapted for life on land _and_ sea. Potential proof that your species may be compatible with m—humans." She fought the flush at her slip, but knew that he'd noticed. He always noticed.

"I just mean, that is a possibility we'd never really talked about," Elizabeth finished lamely.

"Does Dr Macleod know about me?"

"No—no, I would never expose your secret without your permission," Elizabeth assured him. "Certainly not to a scientist who might just as well want you to spend the rest of your life as a lab rat." She shuddered at the thought. "But she did extend an invitation to visit her lab, which I accepted. Whether or not you go with me as my plus-one, I would still like very much to explore the possibilities."

"Thank you, Elizabeth," he said, and his smile was genuine. He'd adopted so many human mannerisms over the years, it was difficult to remember those first few months in the Navy lab, before he'd spoken a single word, still and calm and a complete cipher, showing nothing of his thoughts or emotions.

But now his face was alive with excitement, wonder, and as always, curiosity. His boundless curiosity had never wavered, not once in the last eight years. But she hadn't seen anything like _hope_ shining in his green eyes for a very, very long time.

"Do you believe that I might truly have a connection to this place? That I might finally discover who my people are—or at least were?"

There had been such naked yearning in his eyes that Elizabeth's own stung as she held back sudden tears. She'd laid her hand on his shoulder gently.

"I promise, if there's even the slightest possibility, I will move heaven and earth to get you there so you can find out."

"We," Mark corrected her. "Together."

Elizabeth's smile was just as warm and genuine. "Together."

* * *

Six weeks later, Dr Merrill and Mark arrived at the naval base at Faslane, courtesy of Captain Roth, who allowed them to hitch a ride on the submarine that was his current command. Phil never once forgot that he owed Mark and Elizabeth his life and was the only ex Elizabeth had ever trusted completely when it came to Mark's origins and abilities.

Flying would have been nearly impossible, for a number of reasons, not the least of which being Mark's lack of a US Passport. The Navy had been happy to issue him credentials when they were trying to pass him off as a civilian diver testing new equipment. But they hadn't furnished him with a birth certificate or a social security number. And Elizabeth hadn't dared try on her own—keeping Mark's secret was the most important thing in her life. It wasn't only that he depended on her. But the trust and affection between them ran deep, and had only strengthened by time. She would never jeopardise that by trying to buy him forged identity papers that could land them both in jail if they were discovered. Not that she even knew the first place to look to even find things like that. She was scientist, not a spy.

So much had changed since she'd first found him, unconscious and near death in the ER after washing up on the beach at Point Loma. They'd gone from the Navy Undersea Centre, to the private sector, then back to the Navy. Currently her research grant afforded her a private lab at Scripps, though the grad students that worked with her knew Mark, they had no idea of his origins. It was a far cry from the Foundation's deep pockets, but it reminded her of how they'd started—just her, Mark, and two lab assistants.

But technology had improved tremendously over the years, and he'd been able to trade in the sunglasses with special dichroic filter for gas-permeable contact lenses that muted the electric green of his eyes to a muddy hazel, while still protecting them from damage from the bright lights of the surface world.

Technology wasn't the only thing that had improved. Whereas once Mark would only have been able to remain on land for a maximum of 12 hours before his body began to shut down, risking the very real possibility of a painful death, his stamina and endurance had increased steadily to the point where he only needed to return to the sea once every few days, though his strength and speed under the waves would always far surpass what he was capable of on land.

But despite how far he'd come since those early days at Point Loma, extended time on land still took a toll on him, and Elizabeth hated the idea of him suffering at all when it could be avoided.

The trip by sub had actually been surprisingly enjoyable. A Navy brat, Elizabeth had no problems with bunking in the tiny cabin, and Phil had made special arrangements that allowed Mark full access to one of the sub's airlocks. No-one needed to know that with his ability to swim faster than any dolphin, Mark could easily keep up with the sub's 20 knot top speed, despite the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. Still, Elizabeth always breathed easier when Mark returned to their shared quarters after his 'jaunts' as Roth called them, to tell her all that he had seen.

Although it was grey and damp, when they finally arrived in Ferness, Elizabeth could see why Marina loved it so. There was a stark beauty to the countryside that made her heart feel too big for her chest. The road signs were in English and Gaelic, and Mark tried to puzzle out how to pronounce _Feàrnais_ until Elizabeth—concentrating very closely on driving on the correct side of the road—told him it was most likely close to if not the same as its anglicised name.

To call Ferness a town was a stretch. It only had one street, less than half a mile long, with most of the buildings clustered around the harbour. From a distance, they looked like children's toys—little whitewashed plaster houses with differently coloured slate roofs, one or two thatched standing out from the rest. The street itself was narrow, and there couldn't have been more than ten steps from the door of any one of the houses and businesses to the mossy seawall. A steep wall of cliffs rose up directly behind, the impossibly-green hills dotted with cottages, but it was clear that Ferness was closer to a village than a proper town. Elizabeth estimated there couldn't be more than three or four dozen residents, even with the new jobs brought in by the Institute.

In fact, the town was nearly dwarfed by the Happer Institute. From its location atop the highest cliff above the bay, it dominated the view, the dome of the observatory reminding her that the sea was not its only area of study. The man who'd single-handedly funded the institute was some Texas oil billionaire who apparently cared a lot more about the comets and meteor showers than what his company drilled for in the North Sea.

The tallest and largest building on the single street was the hotel. Marina really hadn't been kidding when she'd told Elizabeth she couldn't miss it. She carefully parked next to a single red phone booth which leaned drunkenly on the cracked pavement next to the gravel car park, perilously close to the water. Its cheery red paint and iconic shape reminded Elizabeth of her single year at Oxford as an exchange student.

Their matching blue windbreakers may have kept them dry once they exited the rental car, but they did little to protect them from the temperature. Elizabeth was glad she'd worn a warm sweater beneath hers as even at the end of summer, the wind still had a bite to it. Mark of course tolerated the cold much better than she did, but Phil Roth had given him a heavy wool fisherman sweater to wear, when it became obvious Mark intended to wear the same light clothing he would have worn in San Diego, saying he'd stick out like a sore thumb. It was a different look than he usually wore, but Elizabeth thought it suited him. Also, luckily, his brown corduroy trousers were long enough to obscure the fact that he wasn't wearing socks. Nearly a decade, and he _still_ hated them and refused to wear them.

A pretty brunette sat behind the small registration desk next to a narrow staircase. She was deeply engrossed in a thick paperback novel and didn't even look up when Elizabeth rapped lightly on the doorjamb.

"Hello?"

"If you're one of the Knox people," the young woman said, still turning the pages, "they're all over in that fancy Lodge down in Sutherland."

"I'm Dr Merrill, and this is my—" she stumbled over the word _associate_. "Mark Harris."

"Ah! You're _Marina's_ Americans," she said, her manner changing in an instant, as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. Giving them a bright smile, she marked her place with a pen and tucking the novel below the desk. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of the cover and saw it was a nearly-new copy of _Name of the Rose_.

"I've put you in three." Reaching behind her, she snagged one of the five keys that hung on the wall. "It's right at the top of the stair, first on the left. I'm the owner, Stella. Just ask for me, if you need anything. I'm always here, or next door in the account's office."

She handed Elizabeth a key on a plastic fob, and then went back to Umberto Eco. Elizabeth and Mark shared a look.

"I'm sorry, there seems to be some kind of mistake."

Her finger still marking her place, Stella just blinked at them placidly. "Three's the one with the double bed and the bath. You specifically asked for the en-suite bath. There's only the one. The rest use the shared bath at the end of the hall. That's why you've been put in three," she said, as if this was all perfectly logical. And were Elizabeth and Mark the vacationing American couple they appeared to be, it might have been. But they weren't, and it wasn't.

"I just meant that when I called—you see, I reserved _two_ rooms." Elizabeth said helplessly.

"It must've been Andrew you spoke with. He's better with a hammer than the phones," Stella said, again as if it was considered common knowledge. "I'm afraid four's currently undergoing repairs and the rest are booked. And six won't work, obviously."

"Obviously?" Mark repeated, looking faintly puzzled.

"Well, it would be a fair bit crowded, what with me and my husband crammed in there with you." She set her book down again, and reached for the rotary telephone. "Did you want me to ring the Lodge then, and see if they've rooms for you? It's no trouble."

"It's fine," Mark said, laying a hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, fingers held very carefully closed. "We will stay here. It's fine."

"Ah, well, that's all sorted." Stella favoured them with another brilliant smile. "Breakfast is at 7, and there's a hot lunch every other day, except Sundays. The bar opens in the evenings, but doesn't serve food. But the pub down the way serves the usual fare, all year round. They do a lovely cheese and pickle sandwich."

Mark tilted his head, clearly unfamiliar with the dish, but Elizabeth just smiled brightly and shouldered her bags. "Thanks so much."

"Oh!" Elizabeth stopped and turned back. "We might be out quite late. Will we need a key?"

"Not to worry. The door's never locked," was the reply, and then her nose was buried once more in the book.

* * *

The room was indeed lovely, with two windows that offered plenty of natural light along with a harbour view. Gulls wheeled over the choppy waters, and even with the grey clouds the view was still stunning.

The bed was a double—what Americans would call a full, with a handsome wooden headboard. There was a wardrobe up against the wall, as well as a single chair, and a low bedside table. There was even a electrical outlet plug adapter furnished, along with a faded dittoed list of local attractions. It was not a particularly long list, and seemed to consist primarily of things related to either the commercial fishing industry or local history related to the fishing industry. And one discotheque that was apparently in the village hall, and only open two Fridays a month.

The tiled bath had a sloped roof, requiring Mark to stoop slightly as he tested the taps in the sink, tasting the water. The best feature, however, was the nice deep clawfoot tub. If it weren't for the fact that they were on the second floor, it would have been perfect for a seawater bath for Mark. But Elizabeth had come prepared, and once filled, she made sure the temperature, oxygen and saline levels were nearly as cosy as his 'bed' at home in no time. It wasn't the same as sleeping out in the open water, but it would do 'in a pinch'.

"Why don't you take a nap, while I get us unpacked? And then we can walk down to the bay."

"I was just about to suggest the same," Mark said with a smile. It had been a long drive, following the long and complicated exit from first the sub, then the base, and while his extremities bore no signs of darkening or cracking skin, she could tell that his endurance had begun to level off and by morning, his strength would begin to ebb. He tugged the heavy sweater over his head, and Elizabeth watched the play of muscles beneath his skin as he carefully folded his civilian attire. Clad once more in nothing but the yellow swim trunks he'd been found wearing after the storm that had washed him up on 'her' beach, he sank into the water gratefully.

Elizabeth left the door ajar as she began to unpack their cases into the wardrobe. She'd left their gear—including Mark's dummy tanks and rebreather—in the rental car, so it was just their clothes and some odds and ends. Her sketchbook, his camera. The scientific journal she'd been reading, his slim volume of poetry by Rilke. By the time Mark emerged from his restorative nap, dressed once more, Elizabeth was sitting up on the bed, her shoes and socks on the braided rug, her journals and notes spread out across the quilted coverlet. She'd resisted the urge to nap, knowing that if she did she'd be jetlagged and foggy the rest of their visit. Instead, she'd tried to use the time to get caught up on the latest research regarding the area.

However, after reading the same paragraph three times without really seeing it, she'd spent most of the time fussing about the two of them sharing a hotel room. Which was ridiculous; they shared a house. Had lived together for years, even! But this felt... different, somehow. _Intimate_. Maybe it was the fact that they were in a new place, where no-one knew either of them, and they were on their own. No Navy mission. No FOR survey. She hadn't even plans for any samples to ship back to Scripps. To anyone else, this would be a dream vacation. A very _romantic_ vacation in the spectacular countryside with a gorgeous man she cared very deeply for, who was an integral part of her life.

For the last four years, most people assumed they were a couple, and it was easier to not correct their assumptions than it was to explain how Mark slept in a tank instead of beside her. While social events might have moments of awkwardness, it made the rest of their entwined lives easier. But there had been plenty of nights when Elizabeth wondered how platonic their relationship _really_ was. There were lines they'd never openly discussed, let alone crossed. But they sure as hell had danced right up to the edge more than once, over the years. Her already infrequent dates slowed to a trickle, and then without either of them mentioning it, she stopped seeing other men. While Mark remained for the most part oblivious to any attempt women (and, occasionally, men) made at flirting with him, he seemed perfectly able to tell when other men were flirting with _Elizabeth_. And he was more than capable of being charming, when he wished to be, in his own way.

She'd worried that maybe she had just been too busy, between work and Mark, to even think about physical intimacy. She missed it in an abstract sort of way, but the truth was very few of her partners had been genuinely good at it and she just wasn't the type to fake an orgasm to spare some fragile male ego. Always practical, she could take care of herself, thank you very much. And if her fantasies while doing so had featured a certain dark-haired, green-eyed man who spent an inordinate amount of time walking around in tiny yellow swim trunks, that was her business and nobody else's.

But what she had in place of an active social life was the kind of _emotional_ intimacy she'd never had with anyone else, before Mark.

She had promised Mark that she would never lie to him, and they had kept that vow. They were honest with one another about things they could never share with anyone else, not even the people they sometimes worked with. They shared joys and frustrations, hard-won successes and dismal failures.

He knew about her difficult past making close connections with other women after being carted all over the world by her father, from Navy base to Navy base. She'd stopped bothering to make new friends by the time she got to high school, because there was no guarantee she'd still be there three months later. Her first genuinely close female friendship had been with Mary Garrett, her research assistant at the Navy lab. But Mary had moved back to the East Coast years ago, and despite vows to stay in touch, they had drifted apart.

She knew about his nightmares, which began after Miller had left FOR. They were infrequent, but always chaotic and confusing, and full of feelings of dread that left him drained and irritable for days afterwards. Elizabeth had suspected that losing a close friend had sparked dormant fears of abandonment and while Mark had agreed, knowing the likely source of the nightmares did little to lessen their frequency or effect they had on him.

She thought she would be touch-starved, but the reality surprised her. From the first day they'd met, they'd had a very tactile relationship that morphed over time into frequent gestures of affection and reassurance. Once he understood the purpose of hugging, for example, Mark became quite the hugger—often to the dismay of CW, who eschewed any and all displays of affection beyond a manly back-pat or light punch in the arm. Anything more sent him into a panic which then resulted in him avoiding people for the rest of the day.

Mark had no real hang-ups, as far as she could tell, when it came to both physical and emotional closeness. He'd never had much of a personal bubble, but he'd learnt to respect other people's. Yet he always seemed to know when Elizabeth needed space, as well as when she needed affection. Just the warmth of another person at her side—a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold. He'd even learned to dance, something which never ceased to delight her, and had slow danced at more than one official function. They'd sit together on her sofa, watching films and documentaries. More than once she'd dosed off with her head resting on his shoulder, and he'd draped a throw over her, as considerate as any lover she'd ever had.

They were partners in almost every way. And for now, it was enough.

Those times when she might be wistful about the possibility of more, she reminded herself that whatever species Mark was, she had no real idea if he even had the same drives and desires as other men, let alone was comfortable expressing them. The entire they'd been together, he had never had an office crush or idle flirtation that she had noticed. CW had hinted Mark had had a fling once, while she had been away at a Navy briefing, but she'd never had the courage to ask him about it, and he had never brought it up to her in all the time they'd been together. Nor did he seem to think anything was unusual about choosing the solitude of the ocean to a crowded bar or night club. On that particular matter, they were in perfect harmony. Cigarette smoke gave them both headaches, and Elizabeth preferred a book and a nice glass of wine after work. Especially as she was usually up a dawn, throwing on a swimsuit or wetsuit and diving into the ocean, leaving all her worries and cares by the wayside for however long it took her to swim out to a specific landmark or buoy and back.

"I'm sorry about the mix up with the room," she said, smoothing her hair back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. "Maybe something will open up, in the next day or two."

"I am not modest," Mark reminded her, and she laughed.

"Oh believe me, I know." She remembered all too clearly the early days where he refused to wear anything except his tight-fitting swim trunks because he couldn't bear the feel of the different textures against his skin, or how the clothing restricted his movements. "But you shouldn't have to put up with _my_ modesty, however misplaced and old fashioned. It's silly, really."

"Are you concerned about your reputation?" he asked, expression guileless, but she knew he was gently teasing her—another very human habit he'd acquired over the years.

"Oh, the entire scientific community _and_ my mother knows I'm a loose woman, living a very modern and carefree life with an unmarried partner."

"But we have not yet scandalised everyone on _this_ side of the Atlantic."

"True. But hand over my heart, I promise not to shamelessly take advantage of you."

She expected a quippy comeback. But he simply smiled, and shrugged on his windbreaker over his sweater.

* * *

They walked along the beach, taking in every sight. Mark had been surprised and then excited to see the large colony of grey seals, lounging on the rocks in a partially sheltered cove, their sleek heads bobbing in the water. Not long ago, it had been estimated they'd been hunted to near extinction. Now there were over a hundred thousand in the Atlantic, despite frequent complaints from the fishing industry.

All sorts of creatures lived in the shallow tide pools created by the rocks, and more than once Mark stopped to observe them and, once, pop an poor unsuspecting krill into his mouth.

"We should have eaten first, I don't know what I was thinking," Elizabeth remarked, but he just smiled up at her.

"I wanted to see how it would taste, feeding in these waters."

"How does it taste?"

"_Good._ Your Dr Macleod is right—this is a very special bay."

The wind ruffled his dark hair, which was long enough to curl against the yoke of the sweater.

"Is anything familiar to you? Rock formations, the water?"

"I will know more tonight, when I have had a chance to explore. But I do not recognise the town, or its style of architecture. The sights and sounds spark no new memories for me."

"It's only been a couple of hours," she said with a soft, encouraging smile. "I'll head to the Institute tomorrow morning."

Mark straightened, brushing sand from his fingers and then drying his palms on his trousers. "I will accompany you. We're making this journey together, remember?"

"Together, then. But once you meet Marina—" she began.

"I know." He laced his fingers through hers carefully. "There will be no going back."

* * *

Elizabeth was fast asleep by the time the moon rose over the harbour and Mark had prepared to go down to the beach to see what he could learn from Ferness Bay. Just as she often did at home, she'd fallen asleep with an open book under her hand. In this case, it was the slim, cheaply published local history that was sold in the shop two doors down from the hotel.

She'd hoped that it might include local legends—anything related to mermaids or Atlantis. But for the most part, it featured black and white photos of the town and fishermen through the generations that—to his eyes—differed very little from the Ferness of today. The men still wore heavy knits and oilcloth jackets, or coats made from sailcloth treated with wax and linseed oil. They still used wood and wicker lobster traps and long-lines with thousands of tiny hooks. The biggest difference were the nets. Factory-made lightweight cotton nets replaced handmade hemp and linen ones, and those in turn had been replaced with synthetic twine.

As someone who subsisted almost exclusively on what the ocean offered—kelp and plankton, small fish and shellfish—Mark did not object to fishing villages such as these. They had been a part of the world since the dawn of man. The methods changed, but life here was part of the predator-prey model that he had always seen as natural. That he understood. They were, after tens of thousands of years, part of the balance.

It was only when communities became destructive—overfishing, discarding anything caught in their nets that they deemed unsaleable, decimating the fragile ecosystems they trawled, or poisoning them with waste—that he felt anger and unrest that often moved him to action. He'd lost track of how many broken plastic nets he'd removed in the miles of ocean closest to his home. Or how many illegal whalers suddenly found their harpoon and tow-lines mysteriously broken, or dinghies sabotaged.

Sometimes he kept those particular adventures from Elizabeth, not out of fear that she would try to forbid him. But that if he were ever to be found out, he did not wish to see her punished for his actions.

He folded his clothes, and secured them in the weighted, waterproof case that he'd leave hidden in the shallows until his return. It wouldn't do for someone to find a neatly folded pile of clothing at the edge of the strand and assume someone had walked into the sea—even if that was exactly what he had done.

On their long journey, he'd read Dr Macleod's research. She'd spent years creating a complete biological profile of the area. She'd measured salinity, seaweed, ornithology, inorganic nutrients, phytoplankton and zooplankton, molluscs and bivalves, krill and cyclostomes, temperatures and currents weekly for three years. Absolutely everything in Ferness Bay, from the two headlands to the high-tide mark. Before setting foot on the beach, he already knew where the shallows ended, what the saline percentage was likely to be, and how exactly the warm waters from the Caribbean affected the entire ecosystem.

As he slid beneath the waves, his eyes adjusted automatically, pupils almost completely dilating to let in as much light as possible. As a result, he was able to see the ocean floor as clearly as the surface world at noon on a sunny day. He swam out of the harbour, past the buoys and markers, into the open water of the bay. He dodged lobster lines, occasionally stopping to free one of the giant sea bugs that had fallen prey, greedy for the crab meat that was used as bait. He saw langoustines emerging from their burrows to hunt, crabs scuttling along the ocean floor, and pollack, mackerel and dogfish that either scattered as he approached, or took no notice of him. Silver eels glimmered in the moonlight that filtered through the water, which remained pleasantly warm even as he reached depths of over sixty metres.

He moved smoothly and silently through the waters, leaving barely a ripple behind, and didn't return to land until nearly dawn.

* * *

Elizabeth blinked sleepily, rising halfway from the bed as Mark eased the door shut as quietly as he could.

"What time is it?" She rubbed one eye with a knuckle, blinking a few times.

"Just past dawn. I did not wish to wake you," he whispered, kneeling on the rug next to the bed. In the pearly grey light, he could see her hair was tousled, and he recognised the faded grey tee-shirt she wore, several sizes too large for her, bearing the word NAVY across it. It was a perennial favourite of hers, and still carried the scents of home. He had always assumed it had been left behind by a former lover before they had met, but it sparked no feelings of jealousy in him. Whoever had first worn it was gone, and Mark was here, now. That was all that mattered.

"You still smell like the ocean," she said, pushing his damp hair back from his forehead, unconsciously echoing his thoughts.

He shrugged. "There was no fresh water, to rinse away the salt."

Elizabeth sighed. "I'm sorry we couldn't have our morning swim."

"Tomorrow," he promised. He did not tell her how his favourite part of their morning ritual was smelling the salt tang of the ocean on her sun-warmed skin.

"Did you find anything?"

"I found a great deal, but none of it was familiar to me. I do not believe I have been to this bay, before. It does not feel the same as the other places I have travelled. It feels new."

Elizabeth sat up and swung her legs around so her bare feet hovered over the floor, and grasped his hand in both of hers. "Oh, Mark. I'm so sorry."

"I have not yet given up hope. Perhaps things will be different today. The sky is clear, and everything changes on a new day. Isn't that what you always say?"

"It is," she said, giving his fingers a squeeze as she smiled at him. Such fondness shone in her eyes, and he knew she felt great empathy for him. She always did. She always had.

"I have already eaten, but it's still hours before breakfast. You will get more sleep, and I will wash away the scent of the ocean and change my clothes, so I give nothing away."

"I wish you didn't have to," she said softly as she picked up the open book that had tumbled to the floor, and set it down on the bedside table.

"I know," he said, reaching out to touch her hand in return. Then he took a change of clothes from the wardrobe, and closed the bathroom door firmly, to give her her privacy.

Mark was still in many ways a stranger to the ways of men and women. CW had attempted to explain 'the birds and bees' to him, but at the time, he'd had no real context and so it hadn't made much sense. Most of the information he relied on when it came to physical intimacy he'd gained through observation. Observation of Elizabeth in particular.

Elizabeth fascinated him. She always had. The mixture of dry wit, fierce determination, intellectual brilliance combined with what always felt to him to be an endless well of compassion and kindness was beautiful to him. He loved her laugh, and tried to make her laugh often, just to hear the sound. He loved the texture of her hair, so different from his own. The way it grew dark from her scalp, but lightened until the ends were nearly white, bleached by the sun and a lifetime spent outdoors.

He had thought at first that perhaps his feelings for Elizabeth were because she was the only woman he knew well. But he'd met others, all sorts of women. Some of whom made their interest in him quite clear. He had kissed and been kissed, but with few exceptions, it had been as impersonal as a handshake. A gesture that was expected of him, which he performed out of custom and the desire to not stand out. Not be marked as different or strange. The sensations may have been pleasurable, yet he never seemed to feel the same passion that moved others.

Except with Elizabeth.

There were times, such as when she was stretching after being hunched over at her desk for hours, when he would apply pressure to the tendons of her neck and shoulders to help relieve the tightness and pain, and the sounds she would make (and his reaction to them) most definitely needed no explanation. Perhaps it was a primal need of all creatures, not just humans, to wish to give another pleasure.

He recognised desire—his own, at least. He reacted to her nearness, and thought often about how much he treasured their time together. He loved the strength in her lean, swimmer's build. But it was the light in her eyes that drew him to her. The sound of her voice he listened for every time he walked into a room. And he knew that she, too, was affected by his presence. Her skin would flush sometimes, and he had learned to recognise the look she would get in her eye when she did. And for all they would tease one another, even joke, neither he nor Elizabeth treated their relationship lightly.

But he had only been with a human woman in that way once, and never again since. And even that tryst had not been initiated by him, but by the carnival owner who had taught him how to give a woman pleasure. His lack of experience normally wouldn't bother him. He enjoyed learning, always. But every new experience he had since this strange journey began had been with Elizabeth at his side. He'd long since made peace with the understanding that the reason his sole experience—however pleasurable—had not moved him to seek out more such encounters was because the thought of pursuing a physical relationship with any woman other than Elizabeth was unappealing to him.

CW had told him once that the only way to get good at something was to practice. But Mark didn't _want_ to practice with anyone except Elizabeth. And the idea of asking her felt... Somehow dishonest. Or perhaps disingenuous was the correct word. He would not undertake such a thing casually. Quite the opposite; the relationship they shared, the friendship, companionship. It was so precious to him, that he was hesitant to change a single thing because what if he lost what he was so grateful to have found? What if he ended up truly alone, with no-one on land or under the waves? The idea of it was too unsettling to dwell on for long, and he tried to push those intrusive thoughts away when they surfaced.

So, while Elizabeth slept in the next room, Mark cleaned the salt from his body, dressed in clean clothes, and tried every trick he knew to not think about the _only_ thing he'd been able to think about, since they'd arrived in Ferness. Namely, how would his life change, if he found the answers he sought? Would there still be room for Elizabeth Merrill in that unimaginable, impossible future?

It made his head and his heart hurt, to think about. But try as he may, he couldn't seem to banish those worries. Not this time.

* * *

"Tell me about the bay," Elizabeth said quietly as they breakfasted in a corner of the hotel's small dining room, as far from the kitchen door as possible.

None of the other guests were awake yet, and the man who had taken their order looked as if he, too, would rather be in bed. But he'd brought her hot buttered toast, two fried eggs, rashers of bacon, two plump sausages that had split as they'd browned, and fried rounds of black pudding. Topping it all of was a pile of sautéed mushrooms, a stewed tomato, and a hearty serving of beans in tomato sauce.

There was also a round brown teapot full of strong black tea, with whole milk and cubes of beet sugar. Elizabeth helped herself to the tea, adding liberal amounts of milk and sugar, feeling a bit more lively as the combination of caffeine and familiar warmth did their work to shake the remaining cobwebs loose.

Mark however, accepted just milk and eggs. He had little taste for smoked haddock or grilled sardines, preferring the small fish fresh and raw. But it would look out of place if he didn't eat at least _something_.

Living in California, it was easy to pass off his particular eating habits as a mix of veganism and pescetarianism. People were used to thick green shakes of indeterminate origin, or adding powered protein to their morning smoothie. It's just that theirs were more likely to be whey than FFP and collagen peptides from wild-caught whitefish. It had taken years for Mark had ventured beyond his strict diet of kelp, krill, and plankton, but he had learned to consume and even enjoy certain types of salad and cooked and raw fish and shellfish. He still didn't tolerate either caffeinated drinks, alcohol, or vinegar well, but nothing about that marked him out of the ordinary, these days.

However, as he picked at his poached eggs, he was amused to see Elizabeth had tucked into her feast as if she hadn't eaten in days. She was smart to do so; they had a long and potentially difficult day ahead of them.

"There's an astounding abundance of life—of all kinds. It's as if it is an oceanic equivalent to the Garden of Eden described in that book you gave me—"

"The Bible?" Elizabeth said dryly, raising a brow before mopping up the bright orange egg yolk with her toast.

"Yes. That one." In the early days he had in fact read every religious text he could find, as he tried to find something—_anything_—familiar. "The nutrient levels of the water are some of the highest I've ever seen, attracting all manner of creatures. And with the bay teeming with so much life, it attracts others. The seals we saw, yesterday. Birds, dolphins, and larger fish. I even found a pod of whales close by."

"Minke?"

"Yes, and further out, a small pod of Orca. The cows and calves were all healthy, with no scarring on either the bulls or cows from harpoons."

"Now that _is_ surprising. They only truly began enforcing the whaling ban recently."

"I believe that the whales know this bay to be a safe haven—their songs carry far underwater, attracting others. There was nothing in your book about Ferness having a whaling industry."

Other guests began descending the narrow staircase, and the small dining room began to fill up with other travellers, and their voices. Soon, Mark and Elizabeth would have to raises their voices to be able to hear one another completely, and that meant anyone sat nearby would be able to, as well.

The second Mark set his knife and fork down, the server reappeared, apron still tied around his waist. He eyed the egg and toast remaining on Mark's plate, in comparison to Elizabeth, who had demolished everything but the tomato and black pudding.

"Was everything to your liking?" he asked with a mild, inoffensive smile.

"Yes," Mark said, hiding his hands beneath the tablecloth.

"Everything was just wonderful," Elizabeth said brightly. "I haven't had a full English breakfast in ages."

"A full _Scottish_ breakfast," the sever said frostily as he cleared the plates away and whisked them back to the kitchen.

As Elizabeth pushed away from the table, Stella came by.

"Please don't mind Gordon. He's gone off Americans a bit, after some fuss we had summer before last. He's still a bit tetchy about it. It only comes out when he hears an American accent, though."

"I didn't mean to offend him," Elizabeth assured her, looking stricken.

"He's always been a bit mercurial. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Will you be able to smooth things over with him?"

"Oh, of course," she said, taking the teapot and cups and saucers. "He's my husband."

* * *

They pulled into the paved lot of the Institute, and Elizabeth remained in the driver's seat after she'd turned the key and the engine off, staring through the windshield at a building so new it would probably smell like fresh paint and floor wax.

Letting anyone in on their secret put Mark at risk. Everyone at FOR had signed a stack of NDAs an inch and a half high before they'd even been allowed to _meet_ Mark, let alone learn what he could do. It had taken her almost a year to get up the nerve to tell Miller the full story behind how she came to be in possession of both a water-breathing man and a nuclear submarine. And he'd been her partner in founding the research facility.

Of course, telling CW hadn't really been a choice so much as a necessity, since neither she nor Miller had the time to spare to go begging for grant money. Writing research grant proposals was a full-time job in itself, and one neither of them had shown a particular talent for. In Miller's case, it was a wonder he had a career in the private sector at all. There were days when Elizabeth genuinely missed him; he'd always provided a much-needed counter-point for her, someone besides Mark to bounce theories off of. She'd done some of her best work with Dr Simon, and had been sad to see him go. But he had secured a cushy teaching position in Maine, which he joked was much more comfortable due to its distance from his family in Montana. He had never been, nor would he ever be, a cowboy.

But Marina was different. She, out of any other marine researcher on the planet, might genuinely understand Mark's history. Might actually be able to contribute to it. But she also was a scientist, and the thrill of discovery could mean Mark would go through those double glass doors today and never come out again. They simply didn't know, and Elizabeth had spent the last month and a half obsessing over whether or not the potential benefits were truly worth the risk.

Mark sat next to her, in the passenger seat, probably too warm in his heavy cable knit sweater. His eyes were once again hidden behind contact lenses, and he held hands in a way that no-one could see the thin membrane that connected each finger. He'd had years of practice, but the potential for discovery by outsiders would _always_ be a risk, no matter how careful either of them had been.

"Are you sure?" she finally asked him, and he nodded.

They got out of the car, and even with his special lenses, Mark squinted in the bright sunshine. Noisy gulls circled overhead; they couldn't tell the difference between asphalt and still water. Plus they loved to swoop down and eat any bit of food they could find—particularly the thick cut French fries that were ubiquitous at chip shops all over the island.

The damp that had chilled Elizabeth to the bone the day before had been burned off by the sun, and Elizabeth shrugged out of her windbreak and draped it across the back seat of the car. Mark hadn't bothered with his, and looked down at the chunky sweater, clearly tempted. However Elizabeth knew for a fact that all he wore beneath was a thin cotton undershirt.

"It's warm, but not _that_ warm," Elizabeth reminded him. She took his elbow, and briefly rested her head on his shoulder, and then led him across the pavement and through those polarised double-doors.

They were issued laminated clip-on visitor badges, and told to wait in the spacious lobby. There was a mezzanine above them, but the marble-floored entryway had been designed and built specifically to impress. Windows let in plenty of light, and there was an enormous oil painting of a distinguished-looking man in tweed that hung in a place of honour, above a large display case. Before they had a chance to see what was inside, Elizabeth heard the click of heels on the marble, and saw Dr MacLeod coming down the glass and steel staircase. Her severe hairstyle and thick-rimmed glasses were back in place, white lab coat freshly pressed. It was difficult, in that moment, to remember this was the same young woman Elizabeth had met casually on the beach one morning in La Jolla.

"I'm so glad you came," Marina said, and she and Elizabeth embraced like long-lost family. Despite the time difference, they had spoken frequently on the phone over the past month and a half, and Elizabeth's fears and worries aside, she genuinely liked the other woman.

"How could I resist? This is a hell of a place."

"Mr Happer thrives on audacious first impressions. I think he would have built the place out of solid gold, just to show he _could_."

Marina's eyes slid from Elizabeth's smile to take in Mark standing silent beside her.

"This is Mark Harris," Elizabeth said, doing her best not to look as nervous as she felt as Mark held out his hand for Marina to shake.

Marina looked down at the hand he'd offered. With barely a second's hesitation she shook it, her handshake firm. But her eyes darted to Elizabeth's, a new understanding dawning in them.

"And you, Mr Harris. What is it that you do?"

"I am an Official Discoverer of Wondrous Things," Mark said with complete sincerity, and Elizabeth was only barely able to hide her mirth. He was quoting a printed certificate that hung on the wall in their shared office at home, a memento of their time with Miller at FOR. As far as she was concerned, every word of it was the complete and accurate truth.

Marina, too, seemed charmed by his answer. "Well, then. Would you like the 50p tour?"

"Very much."

* * *

The tour had taken less than an hour, and Elizabeth was still sighing over all the advanced tech that gleamed and shone, beckoning to her from each lab they passed. Particularly the top of the line mass spectrometers to analyse samples and identify nutrients as well as detect contaminants, micro-plastics, and monitor ocean acidification, and the sonar systems to collect high-resolution sonar imaging data to create accurate maps of the sea floor, and locate seafloor features and possible obstructions to navigators of seafaring vessels. She'd had plenty of toys at her disposal when she'd worked for the Navy, but not since, and she was practically green with envy.

But all three of them knew that the tour was a mere formality, almost completely for show (and to give Marina a chance to show off her facility, with well-justified pride, which Elizabeth understood all too well).

"So, Mr Harris, have you been to Scotland before?" Marina asked as she ushered them into her large corner office.

"We were hoping perhaps that _you_ could tell _us_." Elizabeth said carefully once the door had click shut behind them. Now that they were alone, in private, she finally felt safe enough to broach the subject. "Mark has no memories of where he came from."

"Amnesia?"

"A complete blank—at least in regards to his personal history."

"Elizabeth gave me the name 'Mark Harris' when she found me, eight years ago."

"_Found_ you?"

"Yes. I washed up unconscious on her beach after a storm," he said, and Marina's eyes went wide.

"Like a piece of driftwood?"

"More like a shipwreck, just without the actual ship," Elizabeth clarified.

It took significantly longer than the 50p tour had, to explain. As expected, Marina interrupted at various points to ask what felt like endless probing, pertinent questions, and paused to digest the answers. Sometimes it seemed as if the questions would never stop, but Elizabeth could hardly blame her. It had taken her _years_ to understand Mark's unique physiology, and even now they still occasionally encountered surprises. Such as his ability to see far deeper into the light spectrum than she'd first realised, including ultraviolet light. Or ability to ascertain the exact chemical components and ratios of a compound seemingly by touch or taste. Or that he was indeed ticklish, but did not have the same autonomic emotional and physical response that humans did.

By the time Elizabeth had got to the part about the Mariana Trench, it was nearly one in the afternoon. They sat on very comfortable sofa and matched chairs on one side of the room, beneath a large map of the ocean's currents, small flags marking specific spots. Marina's glasses were tucked into her pocket, and her lab coat was draped over the back of her desk chair behind them, as she leaned forward eagerly to hear more of Mark's story.

"You were able to withstand the pressure with no protective gear? Nothing at all?"

"We tested him in the Navy lab, first. We've never found his true limits."

Mark nodded. "I can survive at every depth we've tested, so far. Sometimes it takes a moment of adjustment—Elizabeth tells me it is not unlike how her ears pop, when a plane begins its descent."

"And you already knew the area?"

"Yes. I had a sense I'd been to that place in the ocean many times. But I couldn't tell you when, or why. I knew it the same way I knew how to breathe."

"But you breathe underwater. You never need to surface, like a porpoise or other mammal?"

"In the water, I can breathe indefinitely," he affirmed, and Marina sat back, her cornflower blue eyes wide. "But after three days at most, I cannot stay on the surface and survive. I must return to the sea."

"You can see, now, I hope, why I wanted the two of you to meet," Elizabeth said, laying a hand on Mark's forearm. Whether it was a gesture of possessiveness or comfort, she wasn't exactly sure. Both, perhaps. "But also, why I was wary."

"My head is still spinning. If I had been in your position," Marina said slowly, and very precisely, "I would have done exactly as you did. Been exactly as cautious as you are. To be completely honest, it was brave of you to come here. I am genuinely honoured that you chose to share your story with me. And I'd like to help you both, in any way I can."

Elizabeth's shoulder's relaxed, and she could feel some of the tension leave Mark as well as he laid his hand over hers, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

"Is there no-one you know, like me?"

"No-one. Not with the all of the abilities you have—or limitations. I can swim for hours without tiring, and hold my breath for up to eight, even ten minutes without needing to hyperventilate pure oxygen first. The cold has never bothered me, not really." She said all this as if it was completely average, and Elizabeth supposed that to her, it was. "But even I need tanks and a rebreather to traverse long distances. I never seem to get the bends, but I can't extract oxygen from water. My lung tissue doesn't have the same gill-like membranes to extract oxygen from water. I've never even heard of such a thing being possible."

"Then how is it do you think that we share some characteristics, but not others?" Mark spread his fingers wide, and allowed her to very gently pinch the membrane between his thumb and forefinger to feel its thickness, elasticity.

"It's possible that someone in my family may have known someone like you once, generations ago."

"Are any of them still here?" Elizabeth asked. "Could we ask them?"

"No, I was born on the Isle of Skye, to the west. Beautiful place, but not much in the way of advanced marine laboratories with deep pockets. My parents are gone, and my brothers left a long time ago."

"I'm sorry, I thought you were from Ferness. Only, you always talk about it as _your_ bay."

"Oh, it is," she said, but didn't elaborate. "But people who can live on land and under the sea—I'd always assumed it was just fairy stories. Folktales. Everyone in these parts knows them, even if it's only just songs."

Mark tilted his head slightly, a familiar gesture that meant he was trying to puzzle out some new titbit of information. "What songs?"

"Have you never heard the stories of the Seal Wife?" Marina asked, a puzzled line between her brows, and Mark shook his head.

"I have read many stories—legends—of creatures who live in the sea, from mermaids to leviathans, but I do not think the books I read spoke of a woman who marries a seal."

"Not quite," Marina said with a fond smile. "The selkie folk—the Ròn—are shape-shifters. Unlike the Merrow—what you would call mermaids—they can live on land. When they cast off their seal skin, they take the shape of people—men and women. They can't change themselves back without the skin, so they jealously guard it, always keeping it on their person.

"The way the story goes, one day a selkie removed her skin and while in the shape of a human woman met a man. They fell in love, but he always feared that she would leave him; return to her life in the water, leave him and their children alone, forgotten. So one night while she slept, he stole her sealskin and hid it. Some say he hid it in the thatch of the cottage roof. Others that be buried it as far inland as he could travel in a day and still be home before the tide came in."

As she spoke, Elizabeth could hear the cadences in her voice change, that faintest trace of a Scottish accent seeping back into her voice as she recited a story she'd probably been told over and over, as a child.

"The Seal Wife was distraught, believing she had lost her true form forever. But she had bairns to raise, and a man she loved, who loved her in return. And though she would stand on the shore, watching the grey seals with tears in her eyes, she always, _always_ came home to her fisherman.

"Then once day, while he was out on his boat with his nets, her youngest daughter brought her the grey sealskin she had found, asking what it was. Her mother took it, and ran away to the waves, nothing left but her dress and apron, left draped over the seawall.

"In some stories, she comes back when she hears the cries of her children, and the grief of her man. In others, she's never seen again, although a grey seal cow watched over her children as they grew, learning to mend nets and get a living from the sea. The cow's bark warned them of fierce storms, and not a single child or grandchild of that family ever drowned. Not one."

"Is it a true story?" Mark asked, and Elizabeth pursed her lips, hesitant to reply.

"All stories—even fairy tales—have to start somewhere, don't they?" Marina finally said, wonder still lingering in her voice.

Mark held his hands apart, as if to show they were empty. "I do not have a seal skin."

"Neither do I."

"I also can never drown."

"As you can see, neither have I." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Yet, anyway."

There was a knock at the door, and the spell of the moment was broken. At her curt "Come in," a man roughly Marina's age burst through.

He was lanky and seemed to be all knees and elbows, like one of those wooden puppets that danced when you pulled on their string. It wasn't even that he was particularly clumsy, or gesticulating wildly. He simply gave the _impression_ of going every which way, even while standing stock still. His medium brown hair might have begun the day neatly parted on the side but was now unruly curls that, combined with his slim build, made him appear taller than he was. In fact, he was nearly Mark's height. He too wore layers—a button down shirt beneath a cable knit wool sweater, and no tie. But he was the sort of young man who looked as if he would have been more comfortable in a three piece suit and a tie. He wore his current attire like a costume.

"Marina—Oh." He stopped short at the sight of her visitors.

"Danny, is something the matter?"

"Mr Happer's on the line, from Houston. In America," he added rather lamely.

"Is he now?" Marina said mildly, seemingly completely unconcerned that the billionaire who currently funded all of her research was on hold, probably being bored to tears by over-loud hold music that played in a loop without pause.

"Yes. He would like to speak with you." The man looked back and forth at Mark and Elizabeth, and his lazy blue eyes pleaded with Marina. "Rather urgently. As in _right now_, urgently."

"Tell him I'll ring him—what time is it in America?"

"Just gone seven in the morning."

"Of course it is. I swear, that man never actually sleeps." Marina sighed dramatically. "Tell him I'll ring him on his personal line, as soon as I'm finished here."

Danny lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Honestly, are you sure that's wise?"

"Thank you, Danny," Marina said with a serene smile, and it was clearly a dismissal. Once the door closed behind him, Marina shrugged her lab coat back on, and settled her spectacles on her nose. "I'm afraid he's right, though. I really ought to get back to it."

"I'm so sorry we've taken so much of your time," Elizabeth said, settling her purse strap back over her shoulder..

"I'm the one who should be thank _you_," Marina insisted. "I hope you'll stay a few more days. Enjoy Ferness. It's a beautiful place, and they're good people here. There's a _cèilidh_ Sunday, in the hall. There will be music and dancing—the entire village will be there. And I'd like to introduce you to some people who might know more about the local lore, if you'd let me."

"Thank you," Mark said, touching her arm briefly.

* * *

Marina led them down to hall to another, less spacious office, where the young man who'd come rushing into her office was sat at a very untidy desk. He was just setting the phone in its cradle, looking a bit shaken as if he was a schoolboy who'd been called to the principal's office. Next to him was half a sandwich, wrapped in wax paper, and it was clear he'd been trying to have his lunch when the mysterious Mr Happer had interrupted him.

"Danny? Will you walk Dr Merrill and Mr Harris out, please?"

"Of course." He stood, brushing crumbs from his clothes. "Danny Oldsen, Knox Oil and Gas. I mean, _formerly_ Knox Oil and Gas. Um. Currently Interim Assistant Administrator, Happer Institute."

He held out his hand to Mark, who merely stared at it, then Elizabeth, who shook it.

"You sound as if you're not quite sure," Elizabeth said with a laugh.

"Yes, well... It's my job to take care of all the tiresome business of making sure there's money in the bank so that the scientists can do all of their science without any pesky interruptions like power cuts, or no toilet roll in the loo."

"Ah," Mark nodded. "You are Marina's CW," he said, which explained the phantom suit and tie to Elizabeth but of course meant absolutely nothing to Danny, who nodded anyway.

"Are you from Ferness?"

"Och no, Aberdeen—Fraserburgh really. Opposite side of the country. It's nothing like here." He shuddered slightly, as if a cold wind had just blown across his very soul. "The North Sea. It's very different from here."

"Yes, it is," Mark agreed with him, startling Danny out of his reverie.

"She's quite something, isn't she, Marina?" Danny said, his bright smile returning as they wound their way through the labyrinth of bright corridors until they reached the door that opened onto the mezzanine above the lobby. "She was at the Marine Research Laboratory in Aberdeen, before she relocated here. She was wasted there. No-one took her seriously. But she's brilliant. Utterly _brilliant_. This entire lab was built based on her proposal. She's doing work here that's going to change the world."

Elizabeth had a strong feeling Danny Oldsen wasn't just referring to Dr Macleod's degrees in oceanography and adeptness at programming.

As they reached the lobby level, Mark and Elizabeth signed out, relinquishing their visitor badges while Danny stood by, hands deep in his pockets, looking a bit lost. Instead of heading straight through the double doors, Elizabeth walked over to the display case they had glimpsed on the way in that morning, curious.

Inside the glass case was an architectural scale model. It was like looking down on Ferness Bay from above—a god's eye view of the town and surrounding area. It had been meticulously rendered—right down to the red phone box and bright green scrub on the cliffs. If she squinted, Elizabeth thought she might be able to see fishermen with their nets, and the villagers going about their business.

"That was a gift from Mr Happer."

"What's that?" Mark asked, pointing to what at Elizabeth had taken to be a pile of driftwood made from kindling twigs, in the top corner of the beach, snugged right up against the cliff wall.

"A bit of foolishness, actually. That's meant to be Ben Knox' shack. At least, where his shack used to be, before he finally moved into the cottage. The beach still belongs to Ben. His family has owned it going back to the sixteenth century. But he's lived his whole life on that beach. They say he knows every inch of it, down to the last grain of sand."

"That seems very unlikely," Mark said, and Elizabeth didn't try to hide her smile.

"I think he's being hyperbolic."

"Oh, I'm not," Danny said, shaking his head with a look of complete seriousness. "In any case, the model's from the abandoned Knox Oil site survey."

Elizabeth's eyes went wide. "They were going to put an oil refinery here?"

"A processing plant and an oil terminal. It was to take up everything from the cliffs to the village, and about a mile inland as well. The pipeline terminal was supposed to join both sides of the bay. This entire area would have been built over. It could have become the petrochemical capital of the world."

"How awful!" Elizabeth was horrified, imagining this beautiful place completely destroyed.

"It would have made the villagers rich, of course. People are still a bit—" he scrunched up his face, and made a gesture that Elizabeth supposed was meant to convey 'touchy'. "But the building of _this_ place has changed that a bit. Land was still acquired, just a much smaller portion of it, from fewer people and no-one walked away a millionaire. But it's brought money and jobs, that sort of thing. It's not the same, of course. But it's better, I think. Certainly better than before. Did you know the observatory's got two different kinds of telescopes? A radio one and another one."

"And what do you hope to do here?" Mark asked before the young man could wax rhapsodic about every machine, ceiling tile, window, doorknob, and light fixture in the place.

Danny gave him a half-smile and a single-shoulder shrug. "Try to imagine a world without oil."

* * *

Instead of driving back to the hotel, they continued down the coast a ways, until Elizabeth spotted where the dunes gave shelter to the beach.

Mark immediately removed his shoes and, rolling up his trouser legs, dug his toes into the sand. After a moment, Elizabeth did the same. It was damp and cool, but not cold. The water, which had been steel grey when they had first driven up the coast, was now stripes of vivid blues and greens.

They walked in companionable silence along the shore, sleeves rolled up, shoes dangling from their hands. In the shallows, it was so clear he could count the small crabs and other life scuttling about, oblivious to their presence beyond where their shadows blocked out the sun.

They ambled down to a spot where the scrub just began to give way to sand, and sat in the long grass. Her hair had come loose, pieces blowing into her face, and she struggled to pull them back into a tail at the nape of her neck while the wind kept trying to steal curls from her fingers.

In mute frustration, she handed the hair tie to him and turned so the wind was blowing her hair back from her face. He smiled, pivoting so he was behind her. She closed her eyes and hummed in pleasure as he ran both his hands over her sun-warmed hair to smooth it back so he could fasten the elastic around it, careful not to tug or pull too tight. He breathed in the scent that rose from her hair, before turning back around and stretching his legs out in front of him, mirroring her pose.

"Thanks," she said, eyes bright. She wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin on her crossed arms and looked out over the water.

"Are you disappointed?" she asked after they listened to the gulls and the crash of the waves on the shore for a while.

"No," Mark said, and as he said it, he realised it was true. "I am no worse off than I was before, and as you say—perhaps Marina's family did indeed descend from one of my kind who fell in love with a human. Like the seal in her story."

It was similar to how Danny had talked about the villagers expectations. The idea of discovering a home—_his_ home—was like riches to him. But it wasn't a real, tangible thing; just an idea. A concept. One he'd lived with for as long as he could remember.

But who was to say _knowing_ would improve his life? What if all it did was bring anger, sorrow, or bitter disappointment? What if he could only be happy by letting go of what was holding him back from truly embracing the life he had now?

Sitting next to Elizabeth, so close that they touched at shoulder and hip, he decided that the real question was whether or not the reality of the woman beside him was worth more than an intangible idea.

The reality was, he had a home. He had a past, even if it only extended seven or eight years that he knew of. He most definitely had a future. And his present...

"It's just a story, though," Elizabeth said, compassion shining in her eyes.

He did not, in this moment, want for anything. The sea, the sky, the sun warm on his skin, and Elizabeth beside him.

"But it's a story we did not know yesterday," he said, refusing to let the day's events tarnish the loveliness of the moment.

* * *

The next few days seemed to pass in a blur. Elizabeth had her first morning swim in Marina's bay and joked that she would need to thaw out afterwards, despite the North Atlantic Drift. She and Mark didn't go too far, but that afternoon they came back with their diving gear and for the first time Elizabeth could see what Mark saw in Ferness Bay. It really was a beautiful place, and if it hadn't been for the failure of their fact-finding mission, Elizabeth would have been having the best vacation of her life. With each swim, it was almost as if the water warmed to her, rather than her adjusting to it. Which was a fanciful thought, but Elizabeth was in a silly, fanciful mood. And as always, she loved swimming with Mark. His agility, strength, and grace underwater never stopped taking her breath away (sometimes literally). He would speed ahead of her and then come rushing back, and showing her underwater caves, shipwrecks, and the forests of kelp that thrived in Ferness Bay.

They explored the entire shoreline, even when the fine weather abandoned them and the cliffs were shrouded in mist. One evening Mark built a driftwood fire and they ate fish he'd caught, having a picnic on the cool sand. She'd been so sleepily content afterward, she'd allowed him to dive them back to the hotel. He was actually much better than she was about driving the right-hand drive car, and never once forgot which side of the road he was meant to be on. Something he delighted in teasing her about as they climbed the staircase to their room.

Mark had learned what chutney was, that he didn't like it, and that he also didn't like the strong, warm, dark beer that was popular among the locals. However, he did like the way they prepared mussels and ate them so often the publican had even grumbled about running out. So that night, Mark had harvested as many adult mussels as he could from the rocks in the bay that were submerged at high tide. He left them in a large net bag to the rear door of the pub before the sun had risen, for the proprietor to find.

He also very much enjoyed dancing with Elizabeth in the pub when there was live music, and watching all the boats that came in and out of the harbour. Every night they slept well—Elizabeth in the bed, Mark in the bay—and Mark did not have a single nightmare the entire time. Rather than feeling bitter or disappointed that they had travelled so far for answers that never came, Mark found he was simply content to spend time with her, and enjoy Ferness. Just as Marina had said, it was a special place. He was very glad they had come.

Almost before they knew it, it was Sunday.

* * *

The night of the _cèilidh_, the village hall was _bright_. Bright as day. No, Mark thought, thinking about how for the most part the skies had been grey and white except for two clear days. Brighter than day.

Used to the dimly lit, wood-panelled dining room and bar of the Macaskill Arms, and the similarly dark pub, it was odd to see so many people congregated in the brightly lit space. Ever since Mark and Elizabeth had arrived, the streets had seemed bare. The town to their eyes appeared inhabited solely by a handful of grizzled old fishermen and one little girl of perhaps four who tottered alongside her mother—or perhaps it was an aunt or a cousin, for it seemed to be a different someone in her wake each time. But hardly anything in-between.

However, the _cèilidh_ had drawn everyone from miles around, and the hall was packed with everyone from the very young, to teenagers lingering at the foot of the stage giggling over the band's drummer, to old men without a single tooth left in their head, still done up in their Sunday best. The music seemed to be a mix of polkas and reels, with the odd cover of a familiar top 40 song thrown in for good measure every once in a while.

They had paid their £5 each at the door, collected by a very serious teenage boy who barely looked up as he carefully counted out the heavy pound coins Elizabeth had given him, and had been there for about fifteen minutes, standing awkwardly at the fringes of the celebration, when Elizabeth spotted Marina across the large open space and waved.

"Mark! Elizabeth!" Marina called from across the room, and began weaving her way through knots of people—some sober, some not so much—so she could enfold Elizabeth in a quick, friendly hug. "I'm so glad you stayed. Actually, no—I'm so glad you've come at all!"

"Not everybody was all that happy to see us, when we first got here," Elizabeth leaned close to her ear, to be heard above the raucous music and lively conversation. "I'm not sure they like Americans much."

"You must mean Gordon," Marina said with a wry smile. "Stella's husband, at the hotel," she clarified. "He was the one trying to negotiate on behalf of the town with the oil people."

"Oh!" Elizabeth's eyes went wide, and the cold shoulder they'd been getting made a lot more sense now that she had that piece of the puzzle.

Danny came up behind Marina, handing her a paper cup of punch, which she took, and then to Mark's surprise, leaned back against him as she sipped, his arm anchoring her around her waist.

"Had it all planned out," Danny said, just loud enough for nearly everyone near them to turn in their seats to hear. "Right down to a guaranteed percentage of earnings for the first decade of operation, and revenue from administering a community trust."

Elizabeth gave an exaggerated wince, and Marina laughed. She leaned up to whisper something in Danny's ear, and then sent him off again with a quick peck on the lips.

"I didn't realise Danny was..." Elizabeth trailed off. "Well, _your_ Danny."

"I suppose he is. _My_ Danny." She said it the same way she would say Ferness was her bay. That same trace of fondness and possessiveness, her faith completely unwavering. "I hadn't thought of it that way, before."

* * *

Marina took Elizabeth by the hand, and led them to the quietest table she could find, as far from the stage as possible. A make-shift bar had been set up, and the kitchen had an array of tables set up with all manner of food, some savoury, but most sweet. A giant urn of tea presided over the entire spread, but seemed a bit forlorn as most had pint glasses of dark beer in their hands—or tumblers of whisky. The ping-pong table pushed up against one wall had been turned into a punch station, with two grey haired ladies wearing nearly identical cardigans doling out ladle after ladle of the stuff that appear to be fruit concentrate mixed with ginger-ale.

Once they were settled, Marina and Elizabeth were shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs against the brightly painted beadboard, Mark on the other side, leaning half-way across the square Formica table so he could hear.

"To go from almost being a millionaire to back to working two—or more—jobs isn't easy. Even if someone had been more than happy, satisfied with their lives before Knox people came round, it gave them dreams of a very different future. Hard to go back to fishing—or running a hotel, and being a chartered accountant, _and_ driving a taxi—after something like that."

"Was everyone in Ferness angry?" Mark asked, looking around. No-one seemed hostile right that second. They were laughing and talking, some of them singing along with the band; hardly a mob ready to riot.

"Only at first," Marina said. "It all feels like a mirage, now. Like a shared dream that faded into memory for most folks. The idea of the money wasn't _real_. It was just a story. A what if. And, for the most part, they still make good money from the lobsters. The seals leave the creels alone, so there's a good crop on the plane to Inverness each evening."

"Creels?"

"That's what they call the baskets they use to catch them." She pointed to a watercolour hanging on the wall above them, inexpertly done, of wicker and pine baskets stacked up against the wall of the harbour. "They've their superstitions about those, as well. Some believe that the souls of fishermen who drown are trapped in cages beneath the sea."

"Is that story true as well?"

"As you say—neither of us can drown. So there's no way for it to be proved. But I don't think so. What would either the Merrow or Ròn do with a human soul? They can't see it, taste it, or hear it sing. What use would any creature of the sea have for something like that? People fear the sea, and blame it for all manner of tragedies. As if it has a living will fuelled by anger or greed. But the sea just _is_. It's where we come from. It's where we belong."

"You subscribe to the heterotrophic theory of the origin of life?" Elizabeth asked, mildly surprised.

"Of course. To me, it has always seemed quite obvious. Our future isn't in the stars, not the way people think. It's the sea."

"As a marine biologist, of course I agree with you. But it's not exactly a popular point of view."

"Ah, well, I've never much minded being labelled 'fringe'. It gives me privacy to carry on with my own work, without meddling from idiots." She paused, a smile playing about her lips. "Well, _most_ idiots. It's useful, now and then, to be underestimated."

"I agree. But it can be awfully frustrating, too."

"_Men_," they said simultaneously, in a disparaging tone, which startled them both into a laugh. Mark wasn't exactly sure what was funny about their observation. But he recognised the burst of joy associated with the discovery of shared experiences and views.

As if on cue, Danny came back, laden with paper plates of local delicacies, and two more cups of punch. "Ben's here. Filling his pockets with tarts and sandwiches. And he's still wearing the same coat—the one with all the holes in."

"He's Ben," Marina said with a shrug. "Did you ask him?"

"Yeah. He said to meet him outside, after the waltz."

"Perfect," Marina said, and slid one of the glasses across to Mark. "Non-alcoholic," she said, before he could ask.

Elizabeth took the other glass, and the four of them raised their glasses in a toast.

"To new friends," Marina said.

"And old stories," Elizabeth added, her cheeks pink.

* * *

Danny whisked Marina off to the dance floor almost as soon as they'd set down their cups, and Elizabeth gestured for Mark to join her on the bench.

"What do you think?" she asked, her lips close to his ear.

Mark looked out over the crowd, feeling the energy in the room, drinking in the joyous laughter. Then he looked at Elizabeth in her simple wrap dress she'd worn many times before but which always brought out the blue in her eyes, and he smiled.

"I think that I like it. This _cèilidh_."

When Danny brought Marina back to the table, colour high on her cheeks and hair in damp curls around her face, she took Mark's former seat and fanned herself with a folded leaflet.

Danny bowed, and extended a hand to Elizabeth who laughed, and took it, allowing him to pull her across to the crowded dance floor.

"Oh, I wish—I _wish_ my gran were still alive, to meet you, Mark Harris, Discoverer of Wondrous Things. Maybe she could have told you. Maybe she knew the rest of your story. But I only know the bits and pieces that were given to me in tales and songs."

"When you say that you were promised Ferness Bay, it was your grandmother who told you that, wasn't it?"

"Yes. But she'd never even set food on the mainland. She lived and died in Skye. I didn't know how she knew about this place, but the second I came here—I felt it. It's mine. And I belong just as much to it."

"I hope to find that, someday."

"How are you so sure you haven't already?" Marina said with a laugh. She inclined her head toward the dance floor, where Danny was attempting to show Elizabeth how to do a complicated country dance while a young woman with a bleached-blonde Mohawk watched him, her lips in a sullen pout.

"May I ask you something?" Mark said, pushing his untouched punch glass to Marina so she could take a sip. "How did you know?"

"About the bay?"

"No. That it was safe to tell Danny your secret. How did you know you could trust him? Perhaps even love him, when you are so different?"

She turned in her chair, resting one arm along the curved back, and watched him dance with Elizabeth, seemingly oblivious of the actual beat of the Ace Tones' drummer, the locals watching him with a mixture of surprise and laughter.

"Oh, at first I thought he was very silly. Then I thought he was very sweet. Then one day I decided that I _liked_ silly and sweet. Very much. And now I'm not sure what my life would be like, without it."

She reached out a fingertip, and drew circles in the ring of condensation on the tabletop before looking up to meet Mark's frank and earnest gaze.

"But sometimes, he looks at me as if I'm his entire world. And it can be hard, being someone else's world. You have to take such care."

She sighed, and swung her legs back around, resting her jaw against the heel of her hand. "But you must know what that's like."

Mark let his eyes stray back to the dance floor, where Elizabeth was laughing gaily at Danny's contortions, and saying something to Stella that he couldn't interpret from so far away.

"Yes. I think I do."

He got up from the table, and asked Elizabeth to dance.

* * *

When Gordon, squeezebox strapped to his chest, climbed onto the stage to join the band, that seemed to be some kind of signal.

"Waltz," Marina said, as she tapped Danny's wrist. He stood, and gallantly offered her his hand.

Mark turned to Elizabeth and mirrored his gesture. Elizabeth laughed, and allowed him to lead her across the hall.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, a touch of wonder in her voice.

"I promise, I have only had the punch. So, aside from a great deal of processed sugar, perhaps it is just the ambience."

Most of the couples on the dance floor weren't actually dancing the waltz, so much as they were taking the opportunity to hold one another sinfully close and gaze into their eyes while swaying back and forth and shuffling their feet from side to side. That was _much_ easier than the box step Mark had had to learn for a formal Navy affair, several years ago, and by following their lead, he could relax and look down into Elizabeth's upturned face instead of counting the beats off in his head, and staring at his feet, doing his best not to step on the toes of her shoes.

Elizabeth rested her cheek against his chest. "Are you glad we stayed?"

He looked down at her bent head, his arm tightening around her waist. "Yes. I am glad we stayed."

As soon as the waltz ended, Marina tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder, and they in effect switched partners—Danny walked Elizabeth back to the table, while Marina took Mark to the door, where an older gentlemen with snow white hair and beard, a tweed cap pushed low over his eyes, waited.

"Ben, this is the man I was telling you about," Marina said by way of introduction. "Mark, this is Ben Knox."

"Hello."

Marina went back inside, the music fading to a whisper once the heavy double doors closed behind her.

* * *

Mark and Ben stepped out into the night, and walked along the harbour in silence, passing couples and families making their way home from the hall.

They walked all the way down to the beach, where a driftwood bonfire burned in the little cove Mark and Elizabeth had found the day they'd gone to the Institute.

"It was there," Ben said, pointing to where the sand lay, undisturbed beyond the circle of firelight. "My shack. Lived there for ages, just fine all on my own I was. But that Happer fellow talked me into moving into a cottage. _Me_. I don't know what I'm angrier about—the fact that I can't just walk out my front door and see what the sea has brought me today, or that these old bones apparently prefer living in a nice cosy house with a stove burning, away from the cold and damp."

Mark remained silent, listening and trying to find the truth beneath the bluster. Also, he was astounded at how many sandwiches Ben had secreted on his person. He pulled one after the other from his pockets as they sat, spraying crumbs as he spoke.

"Worst part is, now people call on me. Expect me to be part of their village whatsits. That reverend even skipped a round of golf one day just to try to talk me into coming up to the church on Sundays. And he takes his golf quite seriously."

He sighed, looking out over the beach and the sea beyond. "No, this is my church. This is all the religion a man like me will ever need."

Ben pulled up a largish metal can that had probably held pitch once upon a time, upended it, and sat down as if it were a chair. Mark didn't bother trying to find anything similar. Instead, he lowered himself to the sand and folded his legs under him so he sat cross-legged. After a moment, he pulled off his shoes, and carefully set them aside.

Ben tapped tobacco into his pipe, then struck a match against the sole of his shoe to light it. As the smoke from both the fire and his pipe rose into the air, Ben looked down at Mark's spread toes.

"You know, I've been a beachcomber all my life," Ben said when they reached the dunes. "But I've never found a man washed up on my beach, after a storm. Not a living one, anyway."

"In all the years you've made this beach your home, have you ever met anyone who could breathe underwater as well as on land?"

"All sorts of things can be found, washed up on this beach. Once I had an entire case of oranges from South Africa, if you can believe it. But the only sealskins I've ever found were still attached to their owners, poor things. And around here, merrow are just stories. Fishermen all over the world claim to have found mermaids in their nets, but I've yet to ever see one with my own eyes."

He took another drag from his pipe, and took off his hat. He laid it on his knee, so he could scratch the top of his head while he thought.

"I never knew Marina's people. But I remember the first time she walked out of the water, onto my beach. She was wearing one of those fancy diving suits, the kind that cover you all up, to keep you warm, I suppose."

"Neoprene," Mark supplied helpfully.

"I don't suppose you actually need one of those, though."

"No."

"Couldn't have been more than sixteen, she was. Standing there like she owned the place, and damned if it didn't feel like it, too. She spent weeks popping in to chat, or bring me interesting finds. I've a conch shell pink as a ripe peach and the size of my head that must have come all the way from Trinidad, she gave me. Prettiest thing I ever saw."

"For the longest time, I thought maybe I'd dreamt her. The solitude driving me right round the maypole, conjuring visions from the sea. But years passed, and she kept coming. Sometimes months and months'd go by without hide nor hair of her. Then I'd wake up and find some treasure she'd left on my window sill. Spanish gold. Sea glass. In a roundabout way, she got me a very nice telescope once."

He pointed, and Mark could make out the silhouette of the observatory dome, a solid black voice against a sky teeming with stars. The moon hadn't risen yet, but the starlight was bright enough to see every individual grain of sand on the beach.

"Never had any children, but I treat that lass like she's one of my own. And more than anything, I wish I could say to you 'Young man, I met you at such and such a time, in such a such a place, and here's your people and your family name.' But I can't do any such thing, and I'm not sure anyone rightly could."

They sat in silence, watching sparks from the fire spiral into the air, and listening to the waves crashing on the shore.

"Thank you for talking with me," Mark said, rising to shake Ben's hand.

"I hope you find your people, I do. But even if you don't, you'll always be welcome here in Ferness. On my beach."

"Thank you, Mr Knox."

"Ben. Nobody calls me Mr Knox, not even the preacher. I'm just Ben." He tapped the ash from his pipe, and cleaned the bowl before tucking it back into an inside pocket of his coat. "Ought to be getting you back. And I'd like to see if there's any of those biscuits with jam in the middle left. I like those with my tea."

* * *

When they came back inside, Ben hunched and shivering in his oversized and much-battered wool peacoat, Mark barely ruffled by the wind, the _cèilidh _appeared to be winding down. Few couples were left on the dance floor, and the men had gathered around the bar, talking with lowered voices, their laughter barely carrying. What few plates of food that remained were being packed away into boxes and plastic containers, and the tea urn had already been disassembled.

Marina and Elizabeth sat side by side at a different table than he'd left them originally, their heads belt closely together as they talked. With their blonde hair and blue eyes, they could be sisters. Or perhaps Marina, barely older than Elizabeth had been the night they'd met, merely took him back to his first memory.

It was the memory of the night he awoke from what he had been sure was certain death to see a woman standing above him, her image distorted by the waves. In her seafoam-green gown, soaked through to the skin, hair dishevelled, completely exhausted, she was smiling, elated as she took the hand he extended to her from below the waves.

She had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

That had not changed.

Elizabeth looked up into Mark's face when he reached them, curious. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, and she let out a deep sigh. Rising, she folded him into a hug and then pulled back, hand cupping his cheek. "I'm so sorry."

He simply smiled. "It's alright, Elizabeth. I did not expect anything, and the walk was pleasant. The sky is very beautiful, here."

"There's a thing, with protons," Danny said excitedly. "Marina, tell him about the protons."

"How much of Gordon's whisky did you drink?"

"I didn't. Not even a little." He grinned down at her. "I had Viktor's vodka."

Marina groaned and rolled her eyes, but Danny laughed.

They collected their coats and wraps, and at the door of the hotel made their farewells. Well, Marina, Elizabeth, and Mark did. Danny unfortunately said farewell to rather a lot of vodka, behind the red phone box.

* * *

Elizabeth slipped off her heels, and held them in one hand while she clung to the banister with the other. She giggled as they fumbled with the room key, and dropped her shoes in the centre of the rug before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"I can't remember the last time we did that. Danced for hours and hours."

Mark stood in front of her, and held out both his hands. With a slightly puzzled expression, she let him take her hands and she rose from the bed. He repositioned their hands and they began waltzing to music only they could hear.

"You could stay here, you know," she said softly, her cheek pressed up against his chest as they swayed back and forth.

"Yes, I suppose we could."

She pulled back, her brows drawn together in a frown. "Not us—you. This place could become a home."

"I already have a home."

"I just mean, with someone like Marina, you could finally be with someone who truly understands you."

"I already am. _You_ understand me. At times, better than I understand myself."

Elizabeth shook her head. "It's not the same."

"I know you believe that I cannot understand the nuances of relationships—human relationships. But I have always cared deeply for you. Elizabeth, I need you."

"I need you too, but..." her words caught in her throat, "I don't think you truly need me the same way. "

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, brushing the back of his hand across her cheek and tangling his fingers in her hair.

"How can _you_?" she countered, words scarcely above a whisper.

"Hand on my heart," he said, taking his opposite hand and laying it over his heart, "I think I would like you to take shameless advantage of me. Very much."

She blinked for a moment, as if every moment between them over the last week replaying themselves again behind her eyes and she was seeing everything from an entirely different angle. Even then, she bit her bottom lip, hesitant.

"Are you—"

She didn't have the chance to finish asking, as he pulled her close and kissed her. In the moment, it seemed exactly the right way to answer her unspoken question to both their satisfaction. He cupped the back of her head with one hand as she got up onto her toes to return his kiss, and he thought of the way the orange sparks had risen in spirals above the bonfire on the beach, as if they were dancing.

Elizabeth did not seem to notice or object to his lack of experience. She leaned into the kiss, her arms coming up to grip his shoulders tightly. They parted only long enough for her to draw another quick breath, and all of his fears and doubts melted away at her touch, her soft sighs.

"I have always liked this dress," he said once their clothing began to get in the way of questing fingers and warm lips. "It is a very nice dress," he said against her lips as his fingers sought to loosen the knot until she stood there with it hanging open, ties dragging on the floor. Her bra was one colour, panties another, and her lips tasted of both whisky and salt. He could not get drunk on alcohol, but he felt as if he could be drunk on her kisses. His head buzzed pleasantly, and every nerve in his body seemed more sensitive. He was completely overwhelmed by her, in the best way possible.

"This sweater has been driving me _insane_," was her nonsensical answer as she tugged at the hem, trying to get it off, but he was too tall for her.

"I have felt the same."

"You really, _really_ haven't," Elizabeth assured him, and if he could have blushed at the way she was looking at him right now, he would have. But he stepped back long enough for the two of them to pull it over his head and toss it across the room, paying no attention to where it landed.

They fell across the bed, laughing, and kissing. Then there was significantly less laughter, and more kissing. And Mark silently thanked Andrew, whomever he may be, for being terrible with phones.

* * *

Much, _much_ later, once the moon had risen and they had pulled the blankets over themselves, Mark pressed his cheek to the crown of her head and whispered, "_You're_ my home." He kissed her temple, and tasted salt—for once not from the sea, but from exertion. He luxuriated in the feeling of her breath against his skin, her limbs draped over his, spreading warmth every place where they touched. "I think that you've always been my home."

"My mother'll sure be happy to hear it," Elizabeth said sleepily, her arms tightening around him.

"I'm sure it will be a great relief to the entire scientific community," Mark added, "on both sides of the Atlantic."

She turned, resting her chin on his chest and looking up into his eyes. She reached up and traced his smile with the ball of her thumb. "You've been _my_ home for a very long time, Mark Harris."

"Do you forgive me for not realising it sooner?"

"Only if you'll forgive me, too. We've wasted so much time."

"I have never considered any of our time together wasted," Mark said seriously, "I think that it would not be the same if things had happened differently. I think everything had to happen exactly this way. It feels _right_, somehow. It feels perfect."

She raised herself up on one elbow and kissed him, taking her time and savouring the experience. "Right answer."

Mark smiled, and let his hands drift over her shoulders, tracing the curve of her back. "I think that they should have a _cèilidh _in San Diego, too."

"Every Sunday?" she asked, on the edge of laughter.

"_Yes_," he said emphatically, with a firm nod. "Every Sunday. And Monday. And Thursdays as well."

Elizabeth laughed into his chest, and then pressed a kiss to his sternum. "OK. I can do Thursdays."


End file.
